


Turning Out

by astraldefender



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Bisexual Otabek Altin, Bisexual Yuri Plisetsky, Canon Universe, Character Study, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Minor Religion Mention, Minor Swearing, Otabek is just a really good friend, Personal Growth, Time Jump, Underage Drinking, Yuri goes to Almaty y'all, Yuri has to come to terms with a lot about himself when he finally hits his growth spurt, basically 12k of me loving my favorite knife wearing trash son, but mostly if you squint it's more just a future undertone, coming of age fic, growth spurts, he gets there though, i guess it's a little angsty but only because Yuri is a brat who can't deal with his emotions, who might also have feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 11:44:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13740177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astraldefender/pseuds/astraldefender
Summary: The growth spurt he'd been staving off for so many years wreaks havoc on his body over the next eight months leading to the Grand Prix season, but even with the best intentions and with the best training, you can only push a body so far before it breaks.-"I was just wondering...how you might feel about having some company."The seconds before Otabek responds feel like hours, ticking by steadily like the pulse Yuri could hear in his ears."Are you asking if you can visit?"





	Turning Out

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic is a little outside of my wheel house because I've never written something that didn't center around a romantic relationship. That being said, I wanted to explore Yuri's story line a bit, especially with what we know about his open potential for a significant growth spurt, how that might not happen at a convenient time for him, and how it might just help him grow in other ways. I hope you enjoy it!

It had started between the Rostelecom Cup and the Grand Prix.

Yuri had gone home to Saint Petersburg in a huff of poorly pent up frustration after placing behind JJ. _Again_. The perturbed teen had been ordered by Yakov to a weeks rest to recoup before going into double practices in the final stretch of weeks leading up to the finals.

“Listen up, old man, that's the second time this season I've been out placed by that Canadian _loser_. I can't beat him if I'm not skating.”

“You can't beat him if your body is broken, Yura. We resume practice in a week.”

Yuri _knew_ he could argue, knew he could push Yakov’s buttons until he agreed, but like hell if he didn’t feel like getting some decent rest after that competition.

So he relented.

Yuri spent the next four days mostly holed up in his room doing little more than basic stretches and analyzing the point value of his routines compared to those of the other five finalists. He ate more food with rock bottom nutritional values than he'd even dared to look at in months and blasted the kind of music he _knew_ Lilia and Yakov hated. If he was being forced off the ice then everyone else would be just as miserable as he was.

By the fifth day any residual stiffness from the competition was completely gone, and Yuri's attitude toward his imposed staycation became even more insufferable. Day six he woke up stiff and disgruntled from a restless night of sleep. _Today was it,_ he thought. Yakov would finally cave to his persistence, just as soon as he stretched the fatigue from his joints.

It wasn't until after what should have been his final extended toe touch that he realized something wasn't quite right.

Yuri had slept poorly before, all athletes that put that kind of stress on their bodies do from time to time, but even with an extra stretch he couldn't shake the weary, grinding sensation. When a rumble that sounded like he hadn't been fed in days ripped from his gut, Yuri was sure his lungs had stopped functioning.

No, no, no, _no. Not_ now.

“Yakov, the studio – _now_ ”

“Honestly, Yura, it's almost been -”

Yakov Feltsman was no stranger to the overwhelming dramatics of teenagers, even less so to the general showboating of his skaters. He'd run the gauntlet multiple times, particularly with Georgi, but the face of honest, unhindered distress of his impervious Ice Tiger drew up nothing but silence. Never before had he seen Yuri this high strung, eyes bleary with tears that neither of the would ever dare to mention.

“Go, I'll call her.”

The laces of Yuri's sneakers dragged behind him in the half melted slush on the sidewalk, and it’s a half kilometer from home before he even realizes that he's forgotten to grab a jacket. Lilia, in all of her stoic Prima glory, arrives ten minutes and one borderline panic attack later.

“Where is the pain centralized.”

“Knees, the most in my hips.”

Lilia taps the tip of her nose while considering their options and it takes everything Yuri has to not scream out. _There's got to be something you can do, anything to make it stop._ He's sure he'll be sick if she doesn't give an answer soon.

“To the bar then. Arabesque and latch your ankle over the top, plie until you feel the stretch and hold it. Stretch further when you can't feel it anymore and keep going until you can't feel it at all. Repetition is key in maintaining control over a changing body. We're on borrowed time now.”

He spends more time in the ballet studio than the ice rink in the following weeks, focused more on chasing the strain in his growth plates than chasing gold. Yuri's tired and bent out of shape by the time he arrives in Barcelona, so when the notoriously mysterious Kazakh skater Otabek Altin offers a momentary reprieve from the stress of the competition with an unstated demand and a motorcycle helmet, he doesn’t think twice.

Of course, any trace of relaxation vanishes as soon as it’s at his fingertips. Yuri has seen the total technical score of JJ's short program, and if there was anything he could count on JJ being other than a colossal pain in the ass, it was a skater who could deliver. Even if he executed it flawlessly, Agape would fall short by several points, so Yuri did what absolutely no one with knowledge of his growth spurt would have advised and upped his own technical difficulty. Granted, no one but the teen himself actually knew about the changes until they were watching him land his quads with both arms fully raised, but whatever lecture Yakov would give him later would be worth it. It would be more than worth it, because despite being a risky decision it still lead Yuri straight to a new world record, surpassing the bar set previously by Victor Nikiforov himself. The high of his new record faltered during press interviews though, and had all but disappeared completely by the time he reached his hotel room, shifting knees aching from over exertion.

It wasn't until the following day, just before his free skate, that Yuri began to doubt himself. The sour teen had a penchant for poor posture outside of practice, so it took Victor pulling him into a tight hug before anyone but those from his home rink noticed his change in stature.

“Yurio, you shouldn't be skating like that if -”

“I'm fine, old man. You'll break a hip before I do.”

Yuri didn't want to make eye contact with Victor, didn’t want to see the worried pinch between his brows. He was already unnerved enough by his own questioning of his abilities.

“Just be smart, Yuri.”

Otabek's rinkside cheer quells his nerves somewhat, but with the pressure of the skate and the pressure in his knees he steps out of his first jump. Yuri's changing body hadn't been prepared for the extra stress he'd put it through with his short program, and the added four centimeters was swaying his center of gravity beyond where his stretching limbs could compensate. He wouldn't lose, not again to JJ, and not to Yuri Katsuki.

The pig wasn't allowed to take gold and retire when Yuri was no longer performing at his best.

His feet were screaming from inside his skates, rubbed raw and held together with athletic tape and a prayer. He'd need a larger size soon, once he no longer had to worry about having them broken in in time for competition. For now he did what he could to ignore the aching protests of his tender joints and pushed forward, going so far as to add an extra quad in the second half to compensate for the one he'd flubbed earlier on. For once Yuri was glad for the desperate intensity of the program, if only because maybe the judges couldn’t tell he was unraveling on the ice. He had no chance of beating Katsuki's new world record, but maybe if he held it together just a little longer he could edge him out in overall score.

The tears were inevitable, no matter how desperately he'd tried to suppress them. The media would go on to write embellished articles about how the young skater was simply overwhelmed by the completion of his senior debut, some even going so far as to say that it was because he already knew he'd won.

They wouldn't know the truth until the press release weeks later.

Yuri's lungs burned with the same rage his limbs did, protesting the abuse. In the moment he was angry and _devastated_ , gutted by the fear that everything he'd worked to immortalize himself with would be overwritten by his body's insistence to change. He'd left everything he had on the ice and in that moment, he wasn’t sure if it had even been enough.

Yuri cries again when his scores were announced, head tucked between his knees as he shook with a full bodied sob. He had been enough this time, but fate was cruel and now he'd be expected to exceed his record breaking senior debut in his sophomore season – a season during which he'd be chasing the stretch of his limbs just as much as world records.

Yuri does not compete in Russian Nationals, and subsequently Europeans and Worlds. The growth spurt he’d been staving off for so many years wreaks havoc on his body over the next eight months leading to Grand Prix season, but even with the best intentions and with the best training, you can only push a growing body so far before you run the risk of breaking it.

He watches the finals from home.

* * *

In the year that had passed since his first Grand Prix finals, Yuri had grown another nine centimeters. His physician had said his growth schedule was unlike anything he’d ever seen, years of proper growth likely staved off due to the high physical stress of figure skating, and there was still the potential for at least another five. His shoulders were another four centimeters wider, making his waist seem impossibly narrow. _A blessing for presentation,_ Lilia had told him, _assuming you maintain your flexibility. And diet._ There were times he'd felt more like a Prima than a skater, spending only a handful of fleeting hours on the ice every few days. It grated on him, but Yuri knew he'd be useless on the ice if he couldn't first relearn control of his body off of it. He stopped taking notice to the length of his hair when Lilia began yanking it up into a bun, he'd been trying to grow it out anyway.

It was April before Yuri returned to the rink full time. The five centimeters his physician had mentioned had turned into another seven by the end of May, leaving him at a total of twenty in the last year and a half. He still had a lot of improvement to make in his movements, but that final stretch in presentation was best attempted with blades beneath his feet. With Victor back in St. Petersburg and their similar statures, Yakov was sure he had enough previous experience to finally proceed.

“I won't just choreograph any routine for you this season, Yura. You're a Grand Prix gold medalist and a world record holder, I don’t care if you didn’t rank last season. You'll never reach your potential if you just skate what I tell you to. Look at Victor, or Mila, or even _Georgi_. Come back to me when you have a theme.”

Two weeks pass and still Yuri has nothing planned for his programs. Each morning he sits down for breakfast and spits out whatever half baked concept he'd spent half the night thinking up and each time Yakov would tell him no. Yuri wasn't even allowed on the ice while his rinkmates began to shop their routines, Yakov claiming his attitude was poisoning the atmosphere. Even Katsuki was getting more ice time.

It wasn’t until the last of the skaters have left for the showers that Yuri finally hit the ice, not daring to attempt anything other than step sequences until he's heard the front door cut off their throngs of laughter. The ice feels different now, the rink smaller in his wider gaits. The sloppy mess of a bun he'd thrown on top of his head doesn't even have the chance to get windswept before Yuri is splayed across the ice after a failed quad salchow. _A salchow_ . At this point he feels hopelessly stagnated, plateaued by a body that's betrayed him. Yuri feels pathetic, _defeated_ as the cold bite of the ice seeps through the back of his shirt.

“Yuri?”

His expression sours the moment he recognized Katsuki’s voice.

“Don't you have some domestic soap opera to reenact with baldy?”

The familiar cut of blades drew his attention as Yuri skated toward him.

“He left to go take care of Makkachin, I wanted to stay a bit longer. We haven't gotten to see much of you lately.”

“Yeah well, you can thank Yakov for that. The old man has me on some spirit quest for a theme that can _define me_ or whatever.”

“You know, Yuri...I felt the same way, two seasons ago when Victor left me in charge of music for my free skate.”

“You only had one program to worry about, piggy. My whole season and any chance I stand at a comeback is riding on this.”

“Maybe so, but in a way I was worse off for it. It's not exactly a secret that I struggled with Eros, just like Agape gave you trouble. In the end they were great because they challenged us, yes, but sometimes I wonder what my season might have looked like if I related to it as much as Yuri on Ice. Maybe it would have been me at the top of that podium.”

“Don't get ahead of yourself, fatty.”

The insult rolled off of the Japanese skater with practiced elegance.

“All I'm saying is that being able to pull from personal experiences can make all the difference. How have you been feeling lately?”

“Frustrated, _angry_.”

“Maybe that's why you haven't found your theme yet.”

“What the hell kind of mind games are you playing, huh? You think if it were that simple we would even be having this conversation?”

“You're still young so I don't expect this to be obvious to you yet,” Katsuki shuffled lower to the ice and braced his chin against the heel of his palm, “-but in my experience, anger is the knee jerk reaction when you don't want to dig too deep into what's actually the problem. Saying you're angry is like a bandaid you use when you don't want to deal with it. I don't think you'll find your theme until you can rip it off.”

Yuri felt the older skater’s hand on his shoulder before listening to him exit the rink. Once he heard the heavy metal of the front door clamber shut he sat forward, closed fist meeting the frigid bite of the ice and a shout rattling through the rafters.

* * *

Later that night, bathed in the glow of his laptop screen, Yuri found himself combing through old videos of Katsuki's past routines. Technically speaking they were hugely flawed, marred by under rotated jumps and misplaced step sequences, but Yuri couldn't look away. Even with his abysmally low scores, it was obvious now why even before he stepped in as his coach Victor had been entranced by the Japanese skater. Suddenly, Katsuki's performance of Stammi Vicino stood out all the more to him. Yuri had seen Victor perform it live countless times, seen him take gold with it in every competition he skated, but the choreography had never had more meaning than when done lazily by a skater previously known for his technical incompetence. Yuri clicked back to the tab with Victor's performance, where he took his fifth consecutive Grand Prix gold, and suddenly understood just how _hollow_ it was. It was a story of desperate love told by a man who had never had a serious relationship in his life, who had run from the instinct to fight that the song translated. On the other hand, every second the then sixth place scrape by spent on the ice was overwhelmingly, _indisputably_ him. What he lacked in technical prowess compared to Victor he made up for tenfold in interpretation, not a single person alive could say that Yuri Katsuki didn't bleed his heart dry through his skates.

Finally he ended on Yuri on Ice, the routine he'd almost lost everything to. It was a different experience watching it now, knowing that he'd never again have to stare it down competitively, never need to calculate it's scoring potential. Now he could see it as a spectator, see the storybook of Yuri Katsuki's life and career unfold on ice. Yuri was the kind of competitor that could blindside you, his intimate understanding of presentation scores often making him a calculated dark horse in a world of skaters who put more weight on their technical scores.

It was plain as day to Yuri now why this skate had shattered Victor's previous world record. Watching the older skater go through his routine with a clear mind had Yuri falling head first into the emotions behind it. Every wide sweep of his arms, each step sequence, the Ina Bauer – it all dripped with _purpose._ Yuri grimaced now, watching his own Allegro Apassionato, the differences in presentation glaring impossibly brighter through the LED display. When he watches Yuri on Ice his heart hurts, burdened by the story Katsuki is conveying. He feels the heartbreak, the rise, the triumph, all of it. With his own free skate it's just...anger.

_Is this what Katsuki had meant earlier?_

His program was meant to be the tale of passionate love, but the only thing he'd been able to muster was passionate anger. Could he have beaten Katsuki's fresh world record if he'd truly understood how to skate Apassionato?

He waits until morning to discuss his new thoughts on his programs with Yakov and Lilia. He's back on the ice with everyone a few hours later.

* * *

A few days later the rough cut of Yuri's short program music is delivered by an old friend of Lilia's, an accompanist from her Prima days. It's nowhere near done, but it's enough to get them started and the low whine of the cello rings true with what he's trying to convey in his skate. It's a safe piece, but Yuri is already familiar with how this part of his final theme plays out. The short program is the story of the last year and a half, up until the very moment he hears the rough score being played through the rink speakers for the first time. It's rich with lament and confusion and misplaced frustrations. His free skate will be from this moment on, assuming he can learn how to decode that into a performance.

Two weeks after, the final cut of his short program is in hand. Yuri has the skate to its entirety blocked out with Yakov and Lilia, plus the two preliminary versions for qualifiers. While he works toward polishing the performance on ice, mapping for his free program kicks into high gear. It's a longer skate with a much more abstract story to be told. It's a little outside of what Lilia is used to choreographing, but with her endless resources in the performing arts circuit she assures him it's under control. This score has more power to it, a fervent violin tapping into the highs and lows of Yuri's own internal battle as if it were his own heart strings twisted onto the instrument. He considers himself lucky that his coaches know him well enough to see the story he's trying to portray even though he can't quite find the words. Yuri knows their experience will only get him so far though, and that everything will come down to his ability to tap into the emotions Lilia is expecting. He'll need to take a page from Katsuki's book and draw from himself for the performance to ring true.

* * *

Katsuki is mid-conversation with Victor when the younger skater flags him down.

“You're doing much better, Yuri. Vitya says you've improved a lot in your presentation practices with him.”

“How do you do it?”

The older skater is taken aback but the bluntness of his question, impossibly dark lashes batting against cold flushed cheeks as he blinks confusedly.

“How do I do what?”

“How do you...have all of these _feelings_ and then just go out and _expose_ them to everyone?”

“I think...well, I'm not exactly good at that anywhere but the ice, but I think the issue usually is that most skaters relate in some degree to the story they're telling, but when the scores are given they can lock it all away and say it was all part of an act. When you're skating a piece about yourself things get complicated, because you can't shy away from the implications that come with it. Emotions might feel like a vulnerability because they're out there for everyone to see, but really it comes down to personal strength that allows you to show them in the first place.”

“Right, so just throw myself on the sword. Awesome.”

“It doesn't have to be in front of everyone, not at first anyway. At the NHK qualifier my first year with Victor, I was in first place after the short program. The part nobody but myself and Victor, and now you, know is that I actually had a full blown panic attack before my free skate. Victor, the idiot, was trying to ease my nerves and I just _lost it_ . I sobbed, and that's already bad news because I'm a pretty ugly crier you know that, and I _yelled_ at him. I felt awful for it, but honestly once I had accepted the nerves instead of fighting them, I was finally able to skate the program like it was meant to be. Sure it wasn't perfect, but once I'd exposed that part of myself to someone I'd admired so much, a room full of perfect strangers wasn't so daunting anymore. So, if you decide you’re in a place where you’re ready to give it a shot, we're always here if you need us, Yuri.”

“Don't think so highly of yourself, Pork Cutlet Bowl.”

Yuri chuckles at the old nickname, one he knows is more a deflection tactic than anything, and pushes off from the boards. “Maybe so, but you know where to find us if you change your mind.”

Yuri is, of course, nowhere _near_ ready to expose the rawest bits of himself to anyone at the rink. He’s not sure he’s even ready to know them personally.

Yakov, after the great progress with his short program, is having absolutely none of it.

 

 **yuri-plisetsky:** yakov kicked me off the ice, u home yet?

 **altin+otabek:** Just got back. Is everything ok?

 **yuri-plisetsky:** yeah yeah, grab ur laptop

 

Yuri stares impatiently at his laptop, mouse hovering over Otabek's skype name waiting for the small icon to turn green. Barely a fraction of a second after it finally does the nerve grating dial tone is ringing; he waits one, two, three rings before Otabek finally picks up like he always does. Predictable down to a T.

“Yuri.” His name rolls off the Kazakh's tongue with practiced ease, the low familiar rumble of his voice causes Yuri's shoulders to relax.

“Did you get a new computer? The picture's so clear I can see the ice burn on your cheek.”

“I needed a new one, this one suits my needs.”

“And the ice burn? I don't need you busting your ass and missing the season, if I have to share the Grand Prix podium with Victor and Katsuki I'll barf.”

“Just practicing jumps, trying to add more quads to my register.”

“You trying to edge me out, Altin?”

“Maybe, you planning on adding a quad flip before the season starts?”

“A quad - _you're joking_.”

“Getting the vertical for it is harder because I'm not the tallest, but I'm landing it 50% of the time in practice.”

Yuri's jaw fell slack. Fifty percent was borderline usable in competition.

“Why didn't you say anything? I could have helped.”

“I wanted to be reliable with it before I brought it up. No point in saying you've learned a new jump if you can't actually land it.”

There was a brief lull in conversation while Yuri watches Otabek take a long sip from his water bottle, adam’s apple highlighted by the bright glow of his laptop screen.

“So what's going on Yuri?”

Yuri bites on his thumb. It was a nervous habit and while he wasn't sure when exactly he'd developed it, it was definitely recent. He and Otabek had been friends for a year and a half at that point, best friends even. They'd messaged nearly every day and skyped frequently, but Yuri was still hesitant about crossing invisible lines

“I was just wondering...how you might feel about having some company.”

The seconds before Otabek responds feel like hours, ticking by steadily like the pulse Yuri could hear in his ears.

“Are you asking if you can visit?”

“...Yes? I – you don't have to – never mind, forget about it.”

“Yuri,” Otabek said with a sudden firmness, “you can visit whenever you want, but preseason is just getting started. You've asked permission, yes?”

“Yakov kicked me out of the rink because I hit a brick wall with my free skate. He told me not come back until I've figured my shit out, go see Grandpa or whatever. I want to, but I don't think I'll find what I need to back in Moscow.”

“You're more than welcome to stay with me, Yuri. When will you fly in?”

“Uh...” Yuri eyes the suitcase standing next to his bedroom door. “7am?”

“You already bought your ticket didn't you.”

“I might have bought it on the way home earlier...something about asking forgiveness instead of permission. I packed before calling, would have just canceled if you said no.”

“Just email me your flight info, I've got to get going but I'll be there.”

“Sure thing, uh...thanks, Otabek.”

“Of course, I'll see you.”

“Yeah, ok. Bye.”

* * *

It's a five hour flight to Almaty from Saint Petersburg, and Yuri usually flies business class but he'd been so eager to get out of Russia as soon as possible that he'd settled for coach. An aisle seat in coach. Needless to say, he was cranky, but as soon as he caught sight of Otabek he called out to him.

“Oi! Over here Altin!”

Otabek pivoted where he stood until he finally locked eyes with Yuri, the faintest hint of a smile splintering through his usual stoic facade. The two closed the distance between them and met halfway, Yuri dropping his bag at his feet and wrapping his arm around the other’s shoulders.

“Forgot how short you were, old man.”

Otabek pulled back from the hug, adjusting the knit beanie he was wearing.

“Yuri, you were shorter than me the last time we saw each other.”

“Just let me have my moment.”

“Have your moment in the car then. I have the day off and I don't want to waste it in traffic.”

* * *

The scenery around Almaty was much different than Yuri had been accustomed to in Russia. It had been a long time since he was last somewhere completely landlocked, but what Kazakhstan lacked in oceanfront property it more than made up for in mountains so large they dwarfed the city. It's the first time in months that Yuri had actually felt small.

It was odd, being in a car with Otabek. Having only been on the back of a motorcycle with him in Barcelona, it hadn't really dawned on Yuri that his friend even _owned_ a car, no matter how much it made sense now that he thought about it.

Without the ability to weave through traffic in the car, it was an hour before they reached Otabek's apartment complex. It was nice, much nicer than Yuri was expecting given how familiar he was with the salary of any figure skater who wasn't Victor fucking Nikiforov. There was a door man. A _door man,_ and Yuri stared at himself in the mirrored ceiling of the elevator as it climbed up floor by floor before pulling to a final rest. Otabek lead him down the hall, past only three other units on the floor and unlocked his front door with swift and practiced ease.

“ _Otabek,_ ” Yuri drawls, dropping his bag to the floor, “I looked past the stiff at the door, the fact that you have a top floor apartment, but this?” His arms gesticulated wildly to the open space around them. “This is a _palace_ , Otabek. Victor's apartment isn't even this nice.”

The older man shrugged noncommittally. “Cost of living is less expensive here than Saint Petersburg, it suits my needs.”

“Who _needs_ an extra bedroom and bathroom when they live by themselves?”

“It's for guests, and my sister when she visits. My family lives eight hours away, so Nasiba stays a few days when I have the time. I'm going to take a shower, help yourself to whatever's in the fridge. Airline food is shit.”

A large portion of the food was unrecognizable to Yuri. Despite Kazakh and Russian both employing a cyrillic alphabet, the language was still too wildly unfamiliar, and while Yuri could easily just lick everything in Otabek's fridge he did have _some_ semblance of proper manners. Instead he ended up with an armful of vegetables and a half carton of eggs sizzling on the stove top while the coffee percolated next to him on the counter. Lilia would have had a stroke over how much sugar Yuri dumped into his cup.

The city was much brighter now than when his plane had landed, and no matter how much Otabek tried to downplay his extravagant apartment it had an unparalleled view. Almaty was as much a city as Saint Petersburg, but the way of life was...different here, that much was clear even from his towering vantage point.

“What do you want to do today? I'm off from the rink and disciplines, so the choice is yours.”

“Maybe just the bike for now?” Yuri kept his eyes trained on the horizon as Otabek padded up barefoot beside him, mug of his own in hand. “We can just pick something while we're out.”

Otabek hummed into his mug. “I'll take you to the Bazaar too, I've only got enough food for one and I'm sure you have preferences.”

“I don't know what half the shit in your fridge is, so yeah that's probably a good idea. I'll need you to translate for me though.” Yuri turns to face his friend with a cheeky grin that all but slips entirely from his face the moment the two make eye contact. “What the _shit,_ Otabek _?_ Do I even _know you?_ ”

The pinch in the Kazakh's brow showed his confusion at the young Russian's outburst, but as he followed the younger's eyes he understood.

“Guess this is new for you, seeing me without a shirt on.”

“That doesn't even cover _half_ of it!” Yuri's eyes raked across the broad expanse of the older man's chest and down the sinewy lengths of his arms. Every available inch of skin from pectorals to shoulders to just above his elbows was wrapped in masterfully woven tendrils of pitch black ink. “And _these_ !” Yuri turned Otabek by his chin, taking in each piece of metal clinging to the shell of his ears. “And _all of this!_ ” Long fingers raked through chin length dark hair that held its waved texture despite still being damp from the shower.

“Well,” Otabek sighed, gesturing to the mural of tattoos inked across his skin, “Inkar says I can't go any further down my arms until I retire, that it's enough of a pain to cover a few on my chest when I have low cut costumes. I don't wear the earrings when I skate because _no one_ wants to deal with taking those out if I end up being sent to the hospital. The hair I always grow out between seasons.”

“You should keep it,” Yuri finds himself saying before he can even think. “I mean – I can help you braid it, if you want.”

A ghost of a smile cracks through the corner of Otabek's mouth as he reaches through the ends of Yuri's hair, the rich tan of his skin contrasting with the pale blond tresses that kiss the skin below his shoulder blades. “I'm sure you know all about that now.”

* * *

Before Yuri has put much thought into it almost a week has passed. He's joined Otabek at his rink most days, but never stays the entire session, opting to wander the streets of Almaty instead. _It's not like he has a free skate to practice anyway_ . He makes a point to stop by as many coffee shops as he can, and finds that a large portion of Kazakh's also spoke Russian which made his days much easier. Otabek had advised him on their first day together what times of day to expect _salah_ and how to avoid those participating.

“You don't pray though?”

“No. Not since I was younger. Skating took over a lot of my life, and it never resonated much with me personally. My parents are better Muslims than I am.”

So Yuri made sure to keep an eye out, noon, mid-afternoon, and sunset since he was still asleep at sunrise and usually back at the apartment by nightfall. He knew it was ok to walk in the path of people who had an object placed in front of them, and to walk behind those who didn't. The culture change from Russia's predominantly Christian religious background was fascinating.

“I'll be done early today,” Otabek said, throwing his dish in the sink. Yuri glowered at him and reached for the sponge. “Maybe you brought something that will work, if you didn't, go shopping. We're going to a club.”

Yuri had been to clubs before sure, usually dragged along by Mila and sneaking in once after his senior debut Finals. But that was in Russia, a country where he had some notoriety to his name. “I'm only seventeen, Otabek.”

“I'm aware, Yuri. I wouldn't invite you if I couldn't get you in.”

* * *

Later that night Otabek's motorcycle pulls to a stop in a damp back alley and nestled uncomfortably close to a conspicuous looking black van.

“You know, I came here on my own volition you don't have to kidnap me.” The attempt at humor falls flat on Yuri's tongue, mostly because despite his prying he still doesn't have much of a clue as to what's going on.

“Help me unload,” Otabek offers, like it's the cure-all answer to every question Yuri has asked that evening. When Yuri hesitates he continues, gesturing to the building behind them. “It's early now, but if you help unload they won't bother to ID you. This is the club, so start carrying things inside.”

When Otabek opens the back doors of the van Yuri is sure some degree of witchcraft had to be involved in fitting the frankly unfathomable amount of equipment inside. He explains which rigs go where, organizing them by which DJ they belong to in order of their set times. Yuri would have thought a live music set that didn't involve any actual instruments would have been a quick set up.

He was very, very wrong.

The venue's sound tech scurried around the stage, pulling brightly colored tape from the seemingly never ending supply latched to her belt. By the time he'd carried the last soundboard in there was hardly a square meter of space that didn't have a taped down wire cutting through it. It helped the DJ's, Otabek explained, but mostly it was for the drunken patrons who would inevitably find their way on stage.

There's nothing familiar about the inside of this club compared to the ones he’d frequented. In Saint Petersburg, Mila always took him to a venue that was well known for its usual celebrity clientele, which was how he got in despite being grievously underage. This club was far more industrial, exposed ventilation and wood beams with strobes attached directly to them. When it was empty it had seemed like a bit of a dive, but as the rigs went up on stage and doors finally opened, the ambiance finally slotted in place. Fog rolled out from underneath the stage in a graveyard like crawl, release valves accented with LEDs that lit the dance floor up like a multicolored dreamscape. The same machines flanked the stage entrances and hung from the ceiling above the DJ booth, diffusing the rapid fire laser display into bursts of all encompassing technicolor. No, this club was much different than the Metro. Just being there felt like a hallucinogenic.

“I need to help finish set up for the next set.” Even projecting over the thumping music, Otabek's voice still rolled off his tongue with a familiar rasp. “Go to the bar, find Shaha. _Don’t_ take anything from anyone who isn’t her.”

Yuri pushed his way across the dance floor, shifting from side to side through the disorienting neon haze and tangled mess of bodies blissfully more intoxicated than him. There's only one person working the counter, and it takes a moment, but finally she points to him.

“Uh...Otabek sent me over?”

Something clicks behind her heavily lined amber eyes and Yuri is met with a silver clad hand extended over the bartop. He takes it after a moment's hesitation.

“Ah~ so you're Beka's Yuri. Shaha, what'll it be, kid? Whatever you want.”

Yuri doesn't ask questions in the face of free alcohol, even after catching the way her tone lifted when she'd called him _Beka's Yuri_ . He ends up with a steady stream of top shelf vodka rocks and a few shots of lesser quality because he might be young but he's not a heathen _don't fuck with a Russian's vodka_ . It's more shots than he knows he should have taken, but he's not used to his new tolerance level and Otabek is still missing and he's getting pissy and the club is so, _so_ hot.

“Hey Russia,” Shaha calls out to him from the till, “throw your jacket behind the counter, you look like you're gonna pass out.”

Yuri looked down, having almost forgotten he was still wearing the stifling second leather skin. Otabek had him wear it for the motorcycle, but he'd meant to leave it in one of the side bags. Admittedly, it had become more a part of his outfit than he'd intended, but the air in the club was stifling and he couldn't ignore it any longer.

The top he'd chosen earlier was definitely one of his more daring ones, completely sleeveless and exposing the pale expanse of his midriff. It was burned chambord velvet, soft to the touch but completely mottled with spots of varying translucency. It was one was his favorites, the daring femininity balancing well with the hard tears that danced down the length of his skin tight jeans and hid away behind the lip of his combat boots. His hair cascaded freely around his shoulders save the small french braid he had down the right side of his head. He wanted to dance, but the music was different here from what he was used to, deep plunges and sharp rises in tone begging to pull his stretched limbs in ways they were unaccustomed to. It'd been far too long since Otabek disappeared for Yuri to continue waiting, so he yells down the bar to Shaha.

“Oi! Where does that asshole usually run off to?”

She doesn't respond, just gets that _same obnoxious smirk_ as Otabek, like he's missing the joke, and points behind him. Yuri turns, following the path she's laid out until his eyes meet with Otabek's. He's on the stage, _he's_ the one playing the music grabbing hold of him _._ Their eye contact never breaks, and suddenly Yuri's climbing the stairs to the stage, arguing halfheartedly with the security guard because _You can't be up here_ but it doesn't matter because he's going to _absolutely throttle Otabek_. The bouncer relents once Otabek finally flags him down.

“What the _hell_ , Otabek? _”_

He merely shrugs in response, messing with a few dials on his CDJ's before grabbing Yuri by the wrist and leading him back down the stairs.

“Wait, don't you need to -”

“The next track is synced, Yuri. Follow me.”

So Yuri does, leaning into the strong grip Otabek puts around his waist, to the middle of the dance floor where he's crushed on all sides by the swaying, inebriated masses. Otabek stands firmly at his side.

“ _Dance,_ _Yuri._ ”

Yuri's breath hitches at the sudden proximity of Otabek's mouth to his ear, the dampness of his breath sending a shudder down Yuri's spine despite the clammy atmosphere of the club.

“I don't know _how_ , Otabek. I do ballet, when Mila forces me out I sit in VIP and drag her ass home.”

“Yuri,” his name falls from Otabek's lips almost like a purr, “do you think anyone here cares? No one has even noticed that I joined the crowd and this show sold out weeks ago. So _dance_ , and stop thinking. You'll look good no matter what you do.”

And maybe it was the alcohol thrumming through his veins, or the way his pulse quickened with the silent but obvious praise, but it was _definitely_ the searing heat of Otabek's hands on his hips, persuading them in the direction they should move that fogged his vision. So he danced, danced long after Otabek was no longer pressed firmly to his back and until the last song of the night faded out with the raising of the house lights. He let the bassline travel from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet, learned how to let a new brand of fluidity rush through his veins. The vodka has his nerve endings singing as he leaned over the bartop and joked with Shaha while she cleaned up at the end of the night, full bodied laughter making him grasp for a stool to keep from falling. When Otabek finally reappears he slides one behind him.

“Ah Beka, go away. I haven't even started with the embarrassing stories yet.”

“Wha-no, no, Otabek go away I need to hear these.”

“Shaha, _please_.” Yuri notes that he likes how Otabek sounds when he sighs. “We talked about this.”

She pouts, brows drawn together in a disapproving scowl.

“Lighten up, _Beka_. You need to drink more when you go out.”

“Yeah, _Bekaaa~_ hmm, oh. Can I call you Beka? Shaha says all of your friends call you Beka. Be- _kaaaa._ ” The nickname tumbles from his lips wrapped in laughter.

“Yes they do, _Yura_. Let's head home.”

“Mmm, I like that a lot. Only the people I like call me Yura and you~” Yuri's forefinger stamped firmly to the center of Otabek's chest, “are one of them.”

“Grab your jacket, Russia, and don't forget you have my number for all of those stories,” Shaha says with a wink.

“Da, Otabek seems so cool, _too cool_ ,” Yuri whispers, giving his friend side eye, “I bet he's a nerd.”

“All right ok, _enough_. Time to go, Yura.”

Yuri covers his face and laughs as Otabek wraps an arm around his waist and ushers him out from the venue. The cool night air feels like ice on the back of the motorcycle, but Yuri's flushed skin relishes in every moment of it until he’s being herded into the elevator and tucked in under the duvet of the guest bed.

“You'll be ok, Yura?”

“Mmm, da,” he mumbles from beneath the blanket, but latches onto Otabek's wrist as he stood to leave. “But...stay? Will you stay, Beka?”

He could have said no, could have said Yuri would sleep more comfortably on his own, but there’s a moment when Yuri looks up to him through pale lashes and Otabek feels his resolve break just enough to will him down to the other side of the mattress. He falls asleep to the gentle weight of Yuri's head on his chest and the feeling of silken locks between his fingers.

* * *

Yuri rolls over to the other side of the bed as sunlight begins to creep through the guest room curtains. It's cold, but there's still a slight indentation in the mattress and when he takes a deep breath to wake his senses it comes with the heady fragrance he recognizes immediately as Otabek. Eucalyptus and a spice blend that despite their weeks together Yuri still couldn't quite dissect. It’s a realization that has Yuri's eyes opening much faster than his pupils were prepared to account for, the warm light of the room fogging his vision as his eyes adjusted. No he wasn't hungover, but his limbs moved with the kind of languid motions he'd come to associate with mornings after a night out with Mila. No he didn't need the glass of water or the pain medication on the bedside table _thank you very much_.

Ok, maybe the water.

A hiss escapes Yuri's lips as his feet touch the floor, his body still running hot from the night before and the central air vents nestled into the floorboards of the apartment. He doesn’t bother putting a shirt on, just takes note of the joggers he had absolutely no recollection of changing into and begins untangling his hair with his fingers while making his way to the kitchen.

There was a coffee mug waiting for him on the counter, and Yuri notes that clearly he'd not been as quiet getting out of bed as he had thought. He takes it all the same with one gratuitous sip before grimacing at the taste. Black, just like Otabek took his. He shouldn't be surprised, since arriving in Almaty Yuri had been the one typically manning the kitchen in the mornings. He drinks it anyway.

“So,” Otabek's voice rumbles out from the mouth of his mug. He's propped up in the corner of the couch, a battered hard cover book resting in his lap. “Did you enjoy yourself last night, Yura?”

Yuri stares intently at the rim of his own mug, and for a moment he's grateful for the bitter film that coats his tongue. It serves as a fleeting moment of distraction when Otabek referring to him so personally provides a small handful of glimpses from the previous evening. He remembers Shaha, the strange environment and the even stranger music, remembers Otabek – _Beka –_ being the one playing it. Yuri is glad his hair covers the flush he feels creeping to his ears.

“You know,” he begins, testing the resolve of his blanket confidence, “I felt like a real asshole asking your friend where you were when apparently you're a _fucking resident_ at that club.”

Otabek shrugs the same noncommittal way he always does, like nothing could ever actually phase him, like the motion in and of itself serves as the perfect cure all answer.

“Last night was about you.”

Yuri's brows knit together, despite understanding that Otabek wouldn’t bother to elaborate further because he knows Yuri too well. Otabek knew he would have spent the night focused on him, despite the fact that _being a regular club DJ_ was apparently nothing new for Otabek. At this point Yuri shouldn't be surprised, Otabek had a bad habit of downplaying everything when it came to himself. Even when Yuri had tried congratulating him on his silver at Worlds two seasons ago, Otabek was quick to insist it was only because Yuri had not competed and then changed pace to remind him he'd only have to deal with Victor's showboating dramatics a little longer, that Katsuki had gotten his gold and the wedding was set for the coming spring. Hanami would be at its peak in Japan after the skating season was through, they had both already given verbal confirmation of their attendance. Victor had made a big show of it in the kiss and cry after the medaling ceremony, given the date and all right then and there and proceeded to invite every skater personally at the banquet. Yuri still cringes when he thinks about the video call he'd received.

“Tch, you think I couldn't tell with the way your friend gave me a free pass at the bar?” The edges of his mouth quirked into a grin. “Not the cheap shit either, the good stuff like what Lilia saves for when Yakov is travelling with Georgi or Mila.” Otabek's stare over the brim of his mug felt like a tag scratching at the back of his neck, a reminder so subtle it needed only to exist to do its job. “It was ok, it's not like I have a lot of experience dancing in clubs. Victor always kept me tucked away in VIP booths because he says they're a bad influence, until he got drinking anyway. Probably the only straight thing about the bastard.”

Another chuckle.

“You mentioned. Did I not help at all then?”

The mug in Yuri's hand clattered down the final few inches into the sink basin as a rogue chill ran down his spine. He does remember, however vaguely, Otabek being in the crowd at one point. Any conversation escapes him, but his arms instinctively cross his waist as he remembers the hands that laid there, hot and heavy.

“I guess a little, that and the vodka kicked in.”

A single breathy laugh comes from Otabek as he shakes his head gently, leaving his spot on the couch and making his way toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, you were quite the sight on the bike last night. I drove most of the way one handed so I could hold your wrists together. You kept slipping.” Yuri laid his forehead on the countertop and groaned dramatically. “You asked to stop at every kebab stand we passed. So much _whining_.” The teasing intent was clear in his tone as he hip checked Yuri away from the sink. “When we finally stopped near the apartment you were so happy you asked the guy if he'd make you kebab all the time if you married him.”

“It was Yusef's, wasn't it?” The hand Yuri used to cover his eyes did absolutely nothing to hide his shame.

“Mm.”

“Shit – it was Erasyl working too, wasn't it?” Yuri didn't even need to look at Otabek to know he had a shit eating grin plastered across his _stupid face_ . Erasyl was the stand owner's nephew who had moved to Almaty not too long before Yuri had arrived in order to acclimate to the city before his first year of university began. He had an unruly mop of chestnut curls and kind green eyes that shone like gems from the warm tan of his skin. He'd spent the last two weeks unabashedly flirting with Yuri and Yuri had not so secretly loved every second of it. “You _knew_ , you asshole. You knew and you did that on purpose. I can't ever go there again, you're doing solo runs for takeaway from now on.”

“You weren't ever going to say anything of your own, not sober anyway. Your time here is short, Yura. Really you should be thanking me.”

“I wasn't going to say anything because I didn't want to make an ass of myself, _Beka_ , which apparently I did last night. _Thoroughly_. So thanks for nothing.”

All that shithead did was shrug.

* * *

“If I can’t bring something to this season that they’ve never seen me do they’ll never take me seriously. If I come back with the same jumps and choreo I’ve always had they won’t even give me a second thought. I need something that’s not only going to make them watch but make them regret ever thinking of writing me off as some fluke.”

“So the quad lutz?”

Otabek’s hand was firm around his own as he hauled Yuri off the ice.

“I _know_ I can do it. The triple has been in my repertoire for years now. With Giacometti retired and Victor as spineless as ever, the only other skater on the bill that will attempt it in competition is JJ.”

“Why not just the flip?”

“They’ll expect it from me, sharing a rink with Victor and Katsudon. Why not go for the jump Victor was too hesitant to ever use in competition? Besides, I’d like to wipe the smug look of JJ’s face and the quad flip is yours, _this_ season.”

Otabek huffed out a laugh while he started putting his headphones back in.

“You coming for my jumps, Plisetsky?”

“It’s not yours until you land it in competition, Altin.”

* * *

It’s another five days of trial and aggravating error in Yuri’s pursuit of the quad lutz before his seams finally burst, toe pick of his right skate colliding with the rink wall as he rips his headphones out.

“How long is it going to take me to get this? I’ve been jumping the triple since I was a _kid_ and -”

“You’re still a kid.”

“Fuck off, Altin, you know what I mean. I’ve been doing this non stop for days now, there’s no consistency to what goes wrong and each time I try to fix it I flub it some other way. It’s been almost two years since I started growing and I _still_ can’t find the control I need for it.”

Otabek leans back against the boards and crosses his arms, breathing deeply before responding.

“Yuri, remember when I took you to the club last week? How you said you couldn’t dance like that because you never _had_? You were so up in your head about how you danced before that it was putting a block on moving forward in any other way.”

“Yeah, so what’s your point?”

“Everything was new, incomparable to anything of your body before. The expression, the _sensuality_ , that's something you own as you are now. You will never evolve as a skater if you keep trying to be Yuri Plisetsky, gold medalist in his senior Grand Prix debut. The quad lutz wasn’t something that you’d ever accomplished before, you have to let it become something that you accomplish now. Let go of Yuri that won gold and become the Yuri who _keeps_ winning gold, who won't _stop_ winning gold. You cannot strive to be something more while anchoring yourself to what you've already been.”

There’s a part of Yuri’s brain that laughs at the borderline prophetic line Otabek drops on him, thinking back to their first season together and how horribly dramatic his friend had been with his free skate.

“Those are some pretty intense words of encouragement meant for someone who's going to kick your ass all season.”

“You’re going to have to pull your skate out of the boards and start landing that lutz if you want to stand a chance.”

* * *

Otabek had another gig scheduled for that weekend, which is how Yuri finds himself with a fistful of the other man's shirt and a hair’s breadth away from snapping.

“Now is not the time to be pulling this shit with me, Beka. You fucking invited him, didn't you? Christ I bet you even _guest listed_ him.”

“I need to go to the booth, Yura. Go see Shaha, she'll be glad to see you again. You don't have to talk to him if you don't want to.”

“Like hell I don't, that's literally the _entire reason he's here._ I have no idea what I'm doing, this whole situation is shit.”

“Yura, listen to me,” Otabek placed his hands firmly on Yuri's shoulders. “The other night you had no idea what you were doing, you'd never danced like that before. Remember what I said at the rink. This is all new to you but _you_ are all new to _him_. There's no bar to reach, except maybe the one with liquor in it.”

Yuri huffs as he parts ways with Otabek and pushes his way toward the bar. Shaha perks up the moment they make eye contact.

“Wasn't sure I'd see you again, kid. What can I do you for?” Yuri notes the fresh design in the shaven side of her head and is almost positive she's even more pierced than the last time he'd seen her.

“Something that'll make me forget what a colossal jackass Otabek is without making we want to actually do anything about it.”

Confusion pinches Shaha's brows together, even more than the barbel at the bridge of her nose already does. “That doesn't sound like Beka.”

“No, _of course_ it doesn't, and that's the worst part. It's all with _good intentions_.”

“Ah, meddling then? _That_ sounds like Beka.” She places a glass down in front of him. “What's he gone and done now?”

Yuri doesn't like small talk with almost strangers, even less so opening up to them, but Yuri's seen the pictures of the two of them in his camera roll from the other night and her name has shown up on multiple of his SNS accounts since, so the half glass of liquor already burning its way down to his throat is enough to bring it out.

“That one,” Yuri gestures down the bar, “dark green shirt, stupid 100 watt smile. _God,_ he's probably staring right now isn't he?”

“ _Very_ subtly though.”

Groaning, Yuri drags his fingers down his face.

“ _Two weeks_ he's been consistently flirting, and I'm a narcissist so of course I ate that shit up because _look at him_ . So we see him when I was shitfaced the other night and not only does Beka basically let me propose to the guy he _invites_ him here. I have no idea what I'm doing.”

“Well you're already starting out strong, most kids your age don't have this sort of thing figured out about themselves yet. You know, liking guys and all.”

Yuri bites back his response, wanting to lament but not completely expose himself. Truthfully it wasn't really a conversation he'd had with anyone before. Otabek was the only person he considered himself close enough with to want to share, and even then he'd always been so candid about his past with Yuri that Yuri had never felt like he really needed to fully explain himself. Figure skating had always blurred the line between masculinity and femininity, and with his shitty schedule and admittedly even shittier attitude, Yuri had decided a while back that it didn't really matter who he ended up with so long as they really wanted to be with him. Shaha notes his silence and pushes forward with her commentary.

“Well, the good news is you two already know each other so you can skip that awkwardness. Just...be honest. They're only ever worth it if they want you as you are.”

He lets what Shaha had just said roll around in his head for a bit, weighing the truth that it held as the confidence it provided soaked down to his bones with the second, third, fourth vodka rocks. When he slides the freshly empty glass across the bar top Yuri decides to not mull over it any longer and offers a small smile to Erasyl. The older boy seizes the opening, and then maybe a bit too quickly he's settled into the stool on Yuri's left.

Better now than never.

“Listen, about the other night-”

“Don't worry about it, it was pretty clear you were drunk. It was nice to see you open like that though. You're a lush, but a very cute one.”

Conversation from there flows smooth like the glasses Shaha keeps sliding into Yuri's open hand. Another two – three maybe? Yuri can't remember, just knows that he wishes he'd spent more time dancing the other night so he grabs the other boy by his wrist, downs the rest of his drink, and pulls him through the crowd. He can feel the definition of Erasyl's chest against his back as the music persuades their bodies to get closer, closer still even with the heat and press of other people around them. He moves differently than Otabek had, though no less welcome, especially with being significantly closer in height and even more so when the passing time leads to more than friendly touches. They feel like fire, burning him straight down to the bone. Yuri leans back, head resting on the taller man's shoulder, and is rewarded with a trail of wet kisses peppered in agonizing slowness down his neck. The lights, the music, the alcohol coursing through his system, the hot breath of the nape of his neck – it's too much and just enough all at once. Before he knows how he's gotten there, Yuri is spun around, leg pressed firmly between the others thighs and kissing with fervor.

The two stay like that for a while, no more out of place than the other pairs on the dance floor, bass mixing in a perfect cacophony with the moans rumbling up from their chests. Yuri is fairly certain that the only thing tethering him to the physical realm is the firm grip Erasyl has on his hair, the slight stinging of his scalp singing all the way down to his toes. They dance more, explore the depths of each others mouths – _thoroughly_ – rut against each other with nothing more than the express intention of being as close as humanly possible.

It never progresses further, no cliched bathroom hookup, no taxi to an unfamiliar apartment. Even as the lights come back up and Erasyl sucks Yuri's lower lip between his teeth with earnest, Yuri is left with nothing more than a new SNS and the splattered mosaic of hushed violet the older boy left down the side of his neck. At this point he knows he must look like a disheveled mess but can't find the will to care as he leans against the bar top. Otabek is kneeling on stage, tending to the last of his wires and indulging the few remaining stragglers in their requests for selfies, but that doesn't stop him from quirking an all knowing eyebrow in Yuri's direction. Yuri blows an errant hair from his face and throws him the middle finger.

“Don't you say a fucking thing, Beka,” he huffs as he swings a leg over the back of the motorcycle.

“Never.”

* * *

It's just before sunrise when they pull into the Almaty International parking garage two days later; there's a stillness that clings to the air, like the city is even less prepared than Yuri is to leave. It's not the first time he's kicked himself in the last twelve hours for booking a flight so soon. What if he got back to Saint Petersburg and nothing had actually changed? What if his practice the other day was just a fluke, if he could only do it when Otabek was there to encourage him? What if –

“Stop overthinking, everything is going to be fine.”

Is it though? Will the vice grip around Yuri's throat disappear once he has ice beneath his feet again, or will it be the weight that drags him to collide with it on the international stage?

“I believe in you.”

Yuri looks down to see their hands latched together, feels the calloused pads of Otabek's thumb rub gentle circles on the back of his own hand, dust gently across his knuckles. He looks up to Otabek’s face and the french braid he’d carefully plaited into his hair so it wouldn’t get mussed when he rode his motorcycle later, reflects on the past few weeks in Almaty and everything he’d learned about Otabek, everything Otabek had learned about him. He latches on to the sound of Otabek voice and each word of earnest reassuring he’d provided, bolstered him with. He tries not to think too much about when Otabek stayed in his bed, or the heat that radiated through the back of his leather jacket on late night rides, or their first night at the club. No medal had ever made his chest feel as heavy as it does now.

“What if it isn't? What...what if when I-” The strain in Yuri's voice is evident as he snatches his hand away from Otabek's grasp and wraps his arms around himself defensively. “What if I can't?”

There's a notable slump in Otabek's shoulders as he tucks his dejected hand away in the pocket of his denim jacket, the other gripping Yuri reassuringly by the shoulder.

“What if you _can_ ?” Yuri can feel the weight of what his friend, his _best friend,_ is implying. _What if against all odds, against what everyone pretends they aren't expecting of him, he reaches further? What if Katsuki's record becomes his? What if Victor's legacy is eclipsed by his own one day? Isn't that what he wanted, to push himself beyond every limit set before him, to establish the new standard?_ The slightest smile slips through Yuri's self doubt as he finally breathes deep.

“You going to meet me there then?”

“Close as I can.”

It felt like a promise.

* * *

It's Lilia who picks him up from the airport. Not willing to waste a single moment she drives them straight to the ballet studio.

“Admittedly I was surprised to hear from you so soon, Yura. Yakov said he wasn't going to choreograph anything until you stopped being so indifferent, but he's full of shit. You and I both know that old man understands you're his best chance at another gold in men's. The full score arrived last week, and I've already spent more time on it than I should have considering your ungrateful fit so I don't care if you have to sleep leaning against the barre. You will learn it, you will excel at it, and you _will_ take gold. Understood?”

Lilia drills him mercilessly for days, testing the limits he's worked desperately to remaster and pushing him even further. His body doesn't bend quite the way it used to, Yuri's not sure that it ever will, but there's a new delicate litheness to his limbs that he's just beginning to understand that can cheat the difference if he's careful.

“That's it for now, Yura. Now you go back to your regular schedule. You're accepting your body as it is now instead of as it was, this is good. Now we focus on making _this_ body move as beautifully as it can, but I need to see it move on the ice. Tomorrow we meet with Yakov and go from there.”

* * *

Yuri spends most of his ice time the following day distinctly ignoring the rest of his team. He doesn't do it out of rudeness, or Teen Angst as Mila calls it, he's worried that if he doesn't get out onto the ice, doesn't at least _try_ to finally pull this routine together before someone shakes him from his goal that he might never make it back. Every moment in the rink feels like walking a tightrope, like at any moment things could go straight back to shit.

_“You'll meet me there then?”_

_“Close as I can.”_

The footwork he'd been practicing with Lilia finds its way to his skates. It's familiar enough and it feels good to finally see it through on the ice.

_“-you cannot strive to be something more while anchoring yourself to what you've already been.”_

He'd spent more than enough time practicing and failing in Saint Petersburg, even more in Almaty. The mohawk turn came as easily as breathing, a jump entrance he was more than familiar with. Yuri feels his back outside edge dig into the ice, right toe pick stabbing back on instinct. His jump success rate had been abysmal lately, almost to the point where when his left skate reconnects with the ice in a smooth cut it nearly shakes him from the landing. He doesn't remember the jump, but the tension he'd been carrying around in his chest is suddenly nowhere to be spoken of.

“Yurio~! What exactly happened in Almaty, hmm? That jump was... _a surprise_.”

Yuri instantly wishes he’d done a better job at avoiding Victor.

“Why, because I didn't fall on my ass for once?”

“Um, I don't – I don't think that's what Victor is trying to say,” Yuri mumbled, joining the two at center ice. “I didn't even know you could land a quad lutz.”

That was not something Yuri expected to hear.

“HAG! You're on camera, did you catch that?”

Mila didn't even bother responding, just waved him over as she, Lilia, and Yakov stared intently at her phone. She held it out to him when he finally reached the boards and there plain as day, after weeks of falling on his ass in Almaty, was a recording of him landing a crisp lutz. A _quad_ lutz. A year ago Yuri would have written the jump off as outside his means, having lacked the stature needed to get the right height on entry for enough rotations. Things were different now, _much_ different. He sent the video file to himself before handing the phone back to Mila.

It's nearly ten o'clock that night when Otabek gets a push notification on his phone. He slides the bubble across the screen and it brings him to Instagram.

 

**yuri-plisetsky**

     See you on the ice #rebirth

**2.3K likes, 756 comments**

 

Otabek rolls his eyes and scoffs at the video, but he can't suppress the smile that tugs at his lips.

 

 **TO:** Yura

Maybe I shouldn't have encouraged you so much after all.

 **  
FROM:** Yura

     Turns out tigers actually don't change their stripes

     You better give this season everything you've got

     I want to see Victor kicked off the podium

 

 **TO:** Yura

What about you?

 

 **FROM:** Yura

     I'll be at the top

     Silver's all yours

 

 **TO:** Yura

We'll see about that

* * *

Once Yakov is satisfied with Yuri's progress he’s officially allowed to add the quad lutz to his roster. His short program falls into place quickly, considering they'd worked out everything save the jumps before he'd left for Almaty, it's all quads save for one triple and the quad-triple-triple he might save for his free program. Yuri is unlacing his skates for the day when he catches sight of Victor's guards.

“So Yurio, when are you going to gossip about your time with Otabek, hmm? Something's... _different._ I'm willing to bet something happened~!”

“That's _not_ my name, old man. And who says I'm hiding anything? Maybe it was just quiet enough to figure things out without you assholes bothering me.”

“To be fair, Yuri,” Mila added, throwing her arm around his shoulder, “ _you're_ the one that mentioned hiding something!”

“I hate every single one of you, I should have stayed in Almaty.”

“You wound me, Yurio. I thought we raised you better than that!”

“You didn't raise me at all!”

He's about ready to throttle Victor when the sound of Katsuki's sharp intake of breath and his phone dropping to the mats distracts him.

“Eh? What's the matter, piggy?”

“They're um, they're here. The assignments...they just got released.”

There's a tense moment of silence among the group before everyone is scrambling for their phones. It can be difficult to maintain a positive atmosphere at a rink with so many skaters in the same division, a feat which they'd somehow managed to accomplish until the moment Katsuki muttered the word _assignments._ Sooner or later you begin out-placing your rink mates, or even worse, being out-placed by them. No one in Yakov's rink ever wants to end up in competition with a rink mate before the Grand Prix finals, but with so many men's singles skaters it's hardly even an option any more.

“Skate Canada and the NHK.”

The relief visibly rolls off of Katsuki, glad to not be skating against Victor until the finals. “Cup of China and Rostelecom again. What about you, Yuri?”

“Skate America and Trophee de France,” he mutters, locking his phone. “Blood at the finals then.”

“Oh don't be so dramatic, Yurio. We'll all be at our absolute best by then. Our little rink family~”

“I'm not your kid, you geezer.”

Victor is saved by the bell once again as Yuri's phone vibrates in his pocket.

 

 **FROM:** Beka

     See you in Paris.

 

A warmth Yuri has become all too familiar with blooms in his chest.

Paris it is.

  


**Author's Note:**

> I did use a timeline I found online of someone estimating when the show actually took place, hence Yuri's third senior season being in 2016.
> 
> Anyway, come holler at me on [tumblr!!!](gutgemacht.tumblr.com)


End file.
